The Moon Can Keep a Secret
by kokopelle
Summary: In a little satellite suspended between its mother world and the colonists' floating homes, Quatre crossed paths with Dorothy again. Both have subconsciously accepted that their transient stay in each other's lives would only last for a short party night, but it seems like the Moon has a different plan for them. 4xD, prequel to "Love and Other Explosive Items" series.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Gundam Wing and all its characters © Sotsu Agency, Sunrise, and TV Asahi. All fanfics not for profit.

 **A/N:** Hello and welcome to a new 4xD fic! I was originally planning to write an installment for my ficlet series _Love and Other Explosive Items_ that would also meet the requirements of the ongoing Endless Reflection Challenge, which some fans cooked up to celebrate the show's 20th anniversary ( _20th_ , you guys!). But my plot bunnies went a little crazy: the story became longer, it swerved away from my usual rom-com-ish approach, and it insisted to be set a couple of years after the war instead of 10 years, as the Challenge required. Guess I just have to write a separate fic for the Challenge, no? ;)

Inspired by Arthur Clarke's _A Fall of Moondust,_ this fic is set before my ficlet _Blind Spot_ and will run for two chapters. Enjoy!

* * *

 **The Moon Can Keep a Secret  
** by kokopelle

 _Chapter 01_

* * *

Lowering his copy of _The Lunar Times_ , Quatre smiled up at the blue-green earthrise as it cast its soft glow across the domed spaceport. The planet was as beautiful as the first time he saw it. From where he was sitting it was just a crescent nestled in a bed of darkness on the horizon, but it could still wrap him in warmth that separated him from the happy but chilly Christmastime hustle-and-bustle of the place.

Still smiling, he checked the series of delta-dotted numbers on the nearest wallscreen and compared it to the timestamp on his ticket. He was yet to be accustomed to reading Lunar Standard Time, but with little difficulty he noted that he will be soon boarding the spacecruiser _Artemis_. Folding the broadsheet under his arm, he threw one last fond glance at the Earth and started to propel himself towards the reception area. He has almost reached the front row when a figure he would recognize anywhere floated gracefully along the turnstiles.

Dorothy Catalonia.

He stopped in his tracks. Of course she would be here. It was also around this time last year, during the First Eve War Armistice Anniversary Ball in Brussels, that he saw her in person for the first time since their _Libra_ encounter.

The memory was so easy to dredge up: he had just disentangled himself from a rather suffocating group of businessmen when he looked up and caught her staring from the punch table. For some reason she had looked _scared_. His mild surprise had been immediately eclipsed by confusion, but he had managed to give her a reassuring smile. He had thought it was a figment of imagination when her expression had softened, but it was real all right. He remembered, quite childishly, that he had considered that a little victory for himself.

Never mind that she had not bothered to acknowledge his presence for the rest of that night.

Chuckling wryly at himself, he watched now as Dorothy discussed something with the receptionist. Should he approach her? He did not know what her reaction would be. Now that he thought about it, the woman had been a seldom visitor in his head; only when he would see her on the news or on a magazine cover would he ponder about her, with his hand reaching to his side, to the exact spot where their small but indelible history was recklessly etched. He would think about _Libra_ , about Sanc Kingdom where he first met her, and about her reaction at the Ball. Was she afraid of _him_? That was light-years away from the most commonsensical of reasons, but why had she looked at him then as if she had seen a ghost?

Shrugging off the questions, he made his way towards her. It was very likely that she was also headed to Hotel de Luna in Clavius, where this year's armistice anniversary celebration would be held. Perhaps she would not be averse to some company on her way there…

As he approached her, she spun around as fast as the low gravity would allow. Unaware that he had somehow held his breath, Quatre halted, watching as her hair fluttered to her sides. She swatted away the lengthy blond strands that swished in front of her. And before she was able to clear her line of sight, Quatre had quickly raised _The Lunar Times_ back up to shield his face. As soon as he was certain she was gone—marched off towards the embarkation station where passengers would be boarding _Artemis_ —he let go of the pretense of reading the newspaper and heaved a small sigh of relief.

And then he laughed. She? _Afraid of him_? Was it not the other way around? He could not even bring himself to say hi this time.

No, "afraid" was not the right term. Gently, he touched the scar on his side.

He could not understand why, but his heart was thudding hard with a strange kind of happy nervousness.

* * *

 _Artemis_ was a sweet little cruiser. Quatre began affectionately referring to it as a moon-cab in his mind, though it was perhaps more correct to bill it as a tiny spaceboat grounded on the moon's rocky "lakes" and "seas," given its official designation (Mare-Cruiser Mark I; he saw it on the brochures back at the spaceport). The interior's pastels and lights provided a tender, homey ambiance, not unlike the glow that basked it from outside its observation windows.

Quatre looked around and saw that Dorothy was settled two rows from him. He was not positive that she saw him when they boarded the cruiser, but it seemed impossible for her to miss him. He was baffled to learn that there were only eight other people aboard, including the two-man crew. When he asked the FA about it, the man politely responded that many attendees to the Ball had booked earlier flights to catch the Lunar Festival the other day.

Not knowing what to do next, he just went back to the datapad on his lap and scrolled through the documents. These could in fact wait at home, but he was informed that their travel time to Clavius would take at most an hour. He felt like doing something productive and work-related. He knew he was supposed to be taking it easy right now, but he figured a few electronic signatures sent to his secretary would not hurt…

"Really? You're going to a party on the moon and you still won't let go of office work?"

Quatre's stylus stopped in mid-scribble. He snapped his head to the voice and found himself face to face with none other than the lady he has avoided moments ago.

Peering curiously down at his datapad, Dorothy seemed to pay his surprise no heed as she slumped on the empty seat next to him ( _cross-legged_ , he offhandedly noted, and it was an innocent thought he would not have pushed away had his eyes not lingered a little too long on her legs before focusing on her face again. He could have slapped himself hard for that. _Twice_.) When he did not say anything, she leaned closer towards him and propped her elbow on the armrest to support her weight.

"Miss Dorothy," he managed, and thanked the heavens it did not come out as a stammered acknowledgement.

Not bothering to respond right away, she flicked a finger to swipe his datapad close. Only when she saw the LOCKED notification onscreen did she lift her eyes and reply, "It's nice to see you too, Mr. Winner."

He could feel warmth spreading to his cheeks. Obviously pleased with herself, Dorothy let out a small laugh and tossed her hair over her shoulder.

"Try to relax a bit. After all, it's not every day that you get to cruise on this little satellite. Although I have to admit, sightseeing is not exactly an exciting activity—on this region at least. It's like a gray, lonely desert out there."

He could see what she meant. As _Artemis_ stirred forward, the plain grayness of the moon outside stretched unbroken into the jagged horizon, with mountain peaks clawing at the stars and the lidded lamp of the earthrise above them.

"Not when you look up," he said, soothed at the sight of the Earth. "Your home is so beautiful. They say I sound like a broken record for repeating that all the time, but it's true. No matter where I look at it from, it never ceases to take my breath away. I wish everybody realizes how beautiful it is."

This was met by a long silence. When he turned back to Dorothy, she was staring straight at him.

"Yes," she muttered semi-inaudibly, looking away. "It is…it is my home."

The pause that followed became a tad uncomfortable. Quatre felt a small spark of panic blooming within him. This conversation was becoming an improvement on their little "connection" in the Ball last year and now it was on the verge of falling apart again. Damn him for saying the wrong thing! He needed to do something to salvage this…but what?

"Well," Dorothy started with a renewed expression that somewhat quelled Quatre's dread, "aside from the news about Winner Enterprises helping with colony reconstructions on L3, I haven't heard anything else about its head. I presume you're very busy. It's good to see you well."

"Likewise," he returned too-happily. He realized a beat too late that her last statement must have meant something more than just a piece of small talk but he brushed it aside. "I almost didn't expect you to attend this year's festivity, given that you yourself have a big project on your plate."

Dorothy lifted an eyebrow when he pointed on an article about Mars on the lower fold of the broadsheet he pulled out. It was no secret that Dorothy, last heiress of the Romafeller Foundation, has gotten herself involved in what was perhaps one of the largest colonization endeavors of the era: The Ares Program, known to many as the Mars Terraformation Project. Recently he also learned she had a hand in the further development of some of the domed facilities on the moon. Her latest venture on the Lunnik Bases of Shackleton City in the south, in particular, involved pressurized greenhouses full of flora six times the size of their terrestrial counterparts. He remembered grinning to himself when he read that—he had never pegged Dorothy to be a tree-hugger type.

"I needed the break," she explained with a shrug. "A trip to the moon is the best de-stressor I could think of right now. The longer I stay in my office, the more I think I'm becoming allergic to paperwork. I'm not always onsite to oversee the operations—in fact, people preferred me deskbound all the time, signing away permits and mobilization agreements. Projects like this necessitate tons and tons of written formalities. I won't blame the last of Earth's forests if they suddenly decide to revolt against me for all the paper I wasted just because their stewards are busy tenting homes on a neighboring Red Planet."

"I know what you mean," he said. He could not help but smile at the forest-mutiny bit.

"No you don't, ," she smirked. "At least about de-stressing. You're on a tourist cruiser and still glued to paperwork. Minus the physical paper, of course."

…did she just _tease_ him? He chuckled and raised his hands in mock surrender. "At least I won't be the target of some Earth-trees insurgency."

"Touché," she returned good-naturedly.

As she stared past him into the mildly illuminated scenery outside, he wondered why he had been so nervous about approaching her. She was not as caustic, or as terrified, as he thought she would be; she was even surprisingly conversational.

With his worries buoyed away by the situation, he let his mind wander back to the very few moments he had with her. Dorothy, the lithe femme fatale of Sanc Kingdom, bringing with her a bagful of philosophies on the beauty of the struggling human spirit, challenging Heero Yuy to a fencing match that had almost disfigured her face permanently. Dorothy, the fearless spacewar tactician who sent out a fleet of ZERO-controlled Dolls to engage him and his comrades in a dance of death. Dorothy, a lonely girl on the floor of the wrecked _Libra_ , clutching a helmet close to her as she wept about the conflicts, about not having a home to go back to—a scene branded in his then-damaged mind as a delicate beauty, like a precious work of art in a crumbling museum…

With all these memories flooding back, Quatre has unconsciously let his hand flutter to his side, right at the top of his scar. He snapped back to the present when he felt Dorothy shift beside him.

"Just tell me if I'm making you uncomfortable," she muttered with a feigned nonchalance. Quatre immediately peeled his hand away from his side.

"No! Not at all. I…I'm sorry. I was just—"

Quatre was not able to finish the sentence. For there was sudden violent jerk, and _Artemis_ ' meager passengers broke out in shrieks and gasps when they were jarred forward and crushed against their safety belts.

Quatre barely had the time to catch his breath when he realized that Dorothy, who transferred next to him less than five minutes ago, did not secure any belt. He saw her take advantage of the microgravity to cushion her collision with the backrest of the seat in front of her, and though he knew she was not hurt, she did release a small cry.

"Dorothy," Quatre called—or tried to, as he was too out of breath to even speak at a normal volume. He fumbled to release himself from his own safety gears. As he clicked the last constricting buckles open, another tremor hit, sending the cruiser tipping forward. Before he made contact with the seat in front of him, he noticed that the cold world outside became curtained with a fall of what looked like sheets of pallid sand.

It was a gigantic, eddying sea of dusts—and bit by bit, it was greedily swallowing _Artemis_.

Chunks of rock followed straight away and hit the cruiser with shaking force. Amidst the cacophony of freaked screams, Dorothy propelled herself to stand up with an unnerving calm. Quatre joined her near the observation windows and watched, rather unsteadily, as large gray boulders drop from above them, toppling to beat the cruiser's hull and roof and knocking out a few lights inside.

When _Artemis_ finally settled, a deafening, grave-like silence wrapped it and its fragile cargo. The fear and confusion of its occupants were almost palpable. Everyone was too stricken by astonishment to utter a word. They could no longer see a single shaft of planetshine or an uneven stretch of a mare through their windows. Instead, there were rough curtains of gray rocks and dusts.

Then it dawned on Quatre what just happened to them.

There had just been a moonquake, and they were trapped.

* * *

 _To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Gundam Wing and all its characters © Sotsu Agency, Sunrise, and TV Asahi. All fanfics are not for profit.

 **A/N:** Thank you for everyone who subscribed! Alas, Offline Commitments managed to divorce me from my laptop the past month and caused a few delays in my updates, but I hope you stick with me. Read and enjoy!

* * *

 **The Moon Can Keep a Secret  
** by kokopelle

 _Chapter 02_

* * *

"For a tea steeped in microgravity, this is pretty good," Dorothy sighed, languidly running a finger on the rim of the empty zero-g teacup she was holding. "I'd say I'd enjoy it more if there's proper china, but I'd choose these little jugs over beverage pouches any day. Who thought of _that_ blasphemy, anyway?"

Freeze-dried teabags haunt every spaceman's personal culinary purgatory, Quatre could attest to that, but he thought this was not the right time and place to review drinks or discuss tea etiquette. He pulled up the last lever on the panel before giving Dorothy a droll imitation of a disbelieving look. "We're trapped beneath piles of lunar rubble, Miss Dorothy."

"Oh please, Mr. Winner," she smirked, getting his drift. "What would you rather I worry about? Captain Clarke told us we have enough food and oxygen supplies to last us two weeks at most. We're not going to end up like star-crossed leads in a melodramatic space opera. Aside from that being too hackneyed…"

He ignored the last statements. "I'm not worried."

"About dying like space drama lovers?"

"About dying here, period."

"That's because we won't," Captain Patricia H. Clarke finally spoke from beside Dorothy, putting down her own cup. "You know that, Mr. Winner, but you still keep on worrying. Rescuers from Port Roris will be here in an hour and _Artemis_ will definitely hold 'till then. The double-hull won't crack now, I assure you that."

In Quatre's mind, that roughly translated to: _'Playtime's over, kids. Enough fooling around with my 'toys'. Now go back to the other passengers so they would not think something has gone wrong here.'_

"I'm sorry for the trouble," he said, stepping aside.

"No trouble at all. I'm actually glad you brought up boosting the cabin pressure. I was too preoccupied with trying to maintain the ship on an even keel and establishing contact with Traffic Control that I forgot we're pressed against layers of lunar debris. _Artemis_ is designed to hold pressure from the inside, not the other way around. We owe it to you that we're still in one piece."

"It was Miss Dorothy who pointed out the possibility of a hull fracture," Quatre said, though he still shook the hand that Captain Clarke offered. "I believe she can adjust the controls herself, but I'm worried she'd forget we're in a moonbus, not in a small spacefrigate."

The joke alone would have made Captain Clarke snicker, but Quatre's accompanying face of sheer fatigue made her bark a louder laugh. As her own brand of rejoinder, Dorothy mischievously snaked an arm around his neck and whispered with poisonous sweetness: "Oh, aren't you the funny man, Mr. Worrywart?"

Punctuating it with a high-pitched chuckle of her own, Dorothy untangled herself from a sighing Quatre.

Funny how it was only a few hours ago that such behavior—or something more nondescript, like battling her eyelashes in his general direction—would make him burn scarlet or churn his stomach with butterfly-flutterings. Now, after dragging him along as she sweet-talked her way into the flight deck, convincing the Captain that they could be of help (which _almost_ ended in blackmail had Quatre not interfered), and "formulating strategies" (her term for the incessant and fortunately non-violent debates with the much older skipper), the sudden tiredness he felt has somewhat dispelled his flighty schoolboy crush, if that was a crush at all.

Of course, this did not mean he has gone totally disenchanted. It was just the giddiness that evaporated. If anything, the accident earlier had rooted him deeper into her orbit, like he was a protective satellite of some sort. He secretly appointed himself her personal bodyguard, not because it was necessary but because he knew deep inside that the situation somehow provided him a reason to breathe life into his un-verbalized, not-completely-dead daydreams.

Well, what do you know? Quatre Raberba Winner could swim around in illogical, self-seeking reveries too. That was all he could get from this. In truth, everyone knew Dorothy Catalonia did not need protection from someone like him…or from anyone, for that matter.

"Thank you for all the help," Captain Clarke said as she sobered. "But to be honest, I'm quite surprised. I used to think young businesspeople are all cooped up in offices doing paperwork. I didn't know they're are so hands-on nowadays that they'd know their way around a ship's flight deck."

Quatre gave her a tight smile. He did not want to lie, but there was no other way they could explain their knowledge on the "rudiments" of aerospace flight than connecting it to their current jobs. If only Dorothy would stop inventing other tall tales to add to the pile…

"Mr. Winner has had a lot of practice even before he became the company president," Dorothy chimed in, and Quatre mentally groaned. "When he was but a wee tyke, he used to sneak into their hangar to play around in one of the resource mining mobile suits. They called him Little Hulk then, because aside from pushing other suits like gigantic dominoes, he has a habit of accidentally breaking yokes inside the cockpit."

"That's not true," Quatre interrupted. Both women looked expectantly at him, so he gave up. What was one more little lie, right? "I…broke one throttle lever _once_. And left some buttons punched-in about two times, yes. But that's all. No making dominoes out of other suits."

He rubbed the back of his neck as he uneasily joined their laughter.

"One more thing that surprised me," Captain Clarke said before ushering them back to the other passengers, "is the two of you."

The confused look that crossed Dorothy's face mirrored Quatre's.

"Lady Catalonia and CEO Winner. Who would've thought?" The older woman smiled knowingly. "I'm sorry, but even your excessive use of Mister's and Miss's when you address each other does so little to hide it. You two may look mismatched at first glance, but I can't deny you're an awfully cute couple."

" _What_?" Dorothy gasped more than exclaimed.

"Don't worry. What I found out in the cabin, stays in the cabin. Now please, let's go join the others? They might start wondering if something has gone kaput if you stay longer here. Thank you."

* * *

"She probably even thinks _Mister_ and _Miss_ are our terms of endearment."

"It's a mistake."

"She sounded a hundred-and-one percent sure we're having some kind of tawdry love affair."

"I can't remember anything about 'tawdry'. Anyway, you can't blame her."

" _Can't_ blame her? She implied that we're dating and keeping it behind closed doors by using titles as our cheap sobriquets."

"It was you who joked about dying like space opera lovers, remember?"

"She didn't need to take it so seriously."

"Dorothy, just let it go."

She opened her mouth for another retort, then fell silent abruptly. When Quatre thought it was dawning on her that it might be her fault, she asked, "Did you just call me Dorothy?"

He arched a brow, not getting her point right away.

"No _Miss_?"

Smirking, she slapped his arm affectionately to make him clamp down his apologies. He smiled and shook his head. Whether that was for once again giving her a peek of his rudeness streak or for preferring not to use their "term of endearment", he did not bother confirming.

* * *

Assured that rescue was coming any minute, the four other passengers—who all turned out to be invitees to the Armistice Anniversary Ball—have calmed down and were now trying their best to battle out boredom. Handscreens and datapads were fished out (mainly for games and movies, since sending messages or signals was out of the question). When the appeal of digital entertainment wore off, they created a makeshift deck of cards from someone's extra notebook. They did not force Quatre and Dorothy to join their poker, with one of them thinking aloud that it was "better to leave the lovebirds alone."

Quatre was a tad glad Dorothy did not hear it. Had she not curled into a fitful slumber in her seat, that guy might have gotten an earful from her.

It made him wonder if it was _that_ bad being romantically linked to him, though. Did she have to sound so offended by the whole thing?

Shaking off the trivialities in his mind, he focused on the problem at hand. By now, he was positive the news about the _Artemis_ had made rounds not only across the moon, but on Earth and the colonies as well. Aside from the fact that the cruiser was carrying passengers of some prominence—himself and Dorothy, a young senator from the L5 colony and his husband, an ESUN ambassador, and the moon's InterPlanet News and Current Affairs VP—it was no secret that they were there to celebrate the peace they fought to achieve a couple of years ago.

He just hoped this did not worry everyone already at the Ball…if the Ball ever pushed through at all. Many of them might not believe there has been a moonquake and assume this was an extremist attack or sabotage. There were similar rumors last year, although nothing bad has happened in the duration of the celebration.

A few minutes after the others abandoned poker, Captain Clarke announced that _Duster I_ from the Roris Rescue Team has just arrived, parked about ten meters above _Artemis_. Amid cheers and exclamations of relief, Quatre gently woke Dorothy and told her the news. She blinked at him sleepily and said she did not realize they were buried that deep in this lunar pit.

The rescue operations were not as simple as it seemed at first. The original plan was that RRT would dig through the rocks and pull them up. They did hear the resource mining mobile suits' cranes and dippers scraping at the debris that blanketed the cruiser, but those came to an unexpected halt. The RRT informed Captain Clarke that scooping _Artemis_ up would put them more at risk, since there was a possibility that their hull might get damaged as it was already put on so much strain. Apparently, the cabin pressure adjustments they did were not enough.

Plan B involved _Artemis_ ' four Escape Pods. Once RRT managed to remove the boulders and bigger rocks that prevented them from using the Pods earlier, _Artemis_ could release each into the smaller debris, and the mobile suits above would be able to shovel them up without any accidental damages.

Each Pod was a sturdy craft that has room enough for two people to be safe in it. The senator and his husband went first; InterPlanet VP and the ambassador boarded Pod 02. When it was finally Quatre and Dorothy's turn, Captain Clarke winked at them and addressed them as "young sweethearts."

"We're not a couple," Dorothy snapped with emphasized coldness.

"All right, Not-a-Couple," Captain Clarke humored her with a crooked smile. "Here's Pod number three. Stronger surface and no windows that are in danger of breaking. We'll be able to maintain radio contact while you're there, so just grab the mic if you want to say something. It's originally designed for one person so there's only one spacesuit inside, but I doubt you'll need it."

Quatre nodded at the spiel that was by that time already familiar, having overheard it when the Captain relayed it to the first two pairs. Dorothy was trying hard not to look too irked as she listened, but she was still able to thank the Captain without a drop of sarcasm in her voice. The last thing they saw through the closing clamshell doors were the flight attendant and Captain Clarke waving them goodbye.

They looked around the Pod. Used for emergencies, the craft's interior did not bear _Artemis_ ' happy pastels at all. It was as bleak as the dusts and rocks it was protecting them from, and even the sole light was a little grayish. They could see the spacesuit tucked neatly in the corner, right next to the dashboard.

"One more thing," Captain Clarke's jolly voice popped from the speakers. "The rescue team will shovel you up in less than fifteen minutes. Just a head's up if you don't want them to catch you two canoodling. See you aboveground!"

Dorothy rolled her eyes when the transmission ended. "Look whose mood has boosted significantly."

Quatre agreed with a soft smile. "She's not too old, perhaps just five years our senior. She might be the skipper but it's obvious it's the first time she had an accident. It must have taken her a lot of effort to appear calm and collected while we're in there."

He expected her to respond in the form of a sharp retort, a snappy one-liner, or even a raised eyebrow. He expected everything but the slight nod she actually gave.

"Are you all right?" he asked, suddenly worried.

"Yes. Just a little sleepy and tired, I guess." She covered her yawn with a hand.

Silence crept in between them, accompanied by the Pod's humming movement beneath their feet. Dorothy settled on her haunches on the floor, noticing that there were no stools or seats of any kind that they could use. Not waiting for her invitation, he sat cross-legged next to her.

"The media would be all over us when we get to Clavius. I'll try my best to get them out of your way so you could rest."

"Like you could do that," she teased. "And it's all right. I didn't mean tired in a physical way. If I was able to go through torturous hours of doing _nothing_ but wait for rescue, you can sure bet I can handle a few minutes of camera-ready smiles and red herrings. Actually, maybe _you_ could even use a few tips from me."

Quatre nodded, remembering how he messed up a few interviews before. Curious if she had watched any of those dialogue clips, he began asking but was interrupted mid-question when a strong jolt jerked him forward. Dorothy let out a gasp and tipped in the same direction. She tumbled once and nimbly put a hand out to prevent herself from sliding further. The strings of short temblors were hard to miss: the Pod was jostled two, three, and four more violent times before settling into a precarious stillness they could not trust. The gray bulb blinked out and was substituted by the crimson emergency lights.

"Please don't tell me it's another moonquake," Dorothy grumbled through the baleful silence. Quatre has not noticed her hook her hand around his arm until the moment she let go.

Quickly getting on his feet, he made his way to the dashboard and snagged the mic. The radio crackled and Captain Clarke's nervous voice went through just as he has finished switching the controls for sending out a message.

"Mr. Winner? Ms. Catalonia? Do you receive me? Over."

"Yes, Captain Clarke. What happened?"

"The rocks have moved, possibly triggered when we released you a few moments ago. I'm afraid both _Artemis_ and Pod 03 went deeper. Are you all right?"

"Yes," Quatre responded, looking over his shoulder at Dorothy. "How about you? _Artemis_ ' hull?"

"Getting more fragile by the moment. It has thin crack, but we're lucky it has not given in yet. We're no longer on an even keel; we might get ourselves on Pod 04 prematurely. But that's not a problem you should be concerned about. You might need to wait a little longer than fifteen minutes, I'm afraid. I'll contact you again once I get more information from Roris. Over."

Quatre stared at the mic for a handful of long seconds. Then he threw a questioning glance at Dorothy, who moved to stand akimbo near the airlock.

"I know," she nodded comically. "Can you believe it? No mention of more time for canoodling."

She laughed when he rolled his eyes at her. At least she could still dredge up humor at times like this.

* * *

Fifteen minutes turned to thirty, then to an hour, then to an hour-and-a-half. Captain Clarke contacted them regularly to make sure they were okay, and she stopped mentioning problems aboard _Artemis_ altogether. She and the FA soon transferred to Pod 04 but they have not released themselves yet, fearing that it might cause another land-slip. They would wait for RRT's signal for the next steps.

The first two Pods, they were informed, have been safely elevated right before the third Pod was out. Captain Clarke guaranteed them that everyone aboveground was doing all they could to pull them up as soon as possible.

Quatre was not a bit troubled at first; somehow, he could feel they would get out of this unscathed. But when he noticed that Dorothy was getting oddly quieter and paler as the minutes ticked by, he could not help but fret a little.

"Really, Quatre, I'm all right," she whispered when he probed for about the tenth time. "My head's aching a little from the lack of sleep, I guess…"

It did not occur to him right away what the matter was, but it struck him hard when he began having the telltale signs of wheezing and got a few throbbings in his temples himself.

They were running out of oxygen.

Aside from muttering something about how stupid it was to leave their treasure trove of precious air supplies from _Artemis_ without any backup plan, Dorothy was unnervingly calm when he broke the news to her. Captain Clarke's reaction was at the total end of the the spectrum; idly he wondered if he should not have reported it to her at all. The news sent her leaping two notches up the panic meter. She attempted to veil it with a feigned confidence, but her instructions about using the breathing circuit from the Pod's sole spacesuit became a little jumbled. He listened even though he already knew how to do it.

It took them only three minutes to detach the absorbent canisters and the twenty-four-hour oxygen supply from the suit. Its old-fashioned design bothered Quatre at the outset, so it was a huge relief when he found that this model, like its updated counterparts, also has its breathing circuit designed for quick release in case it was ever needed for artificial respiration.

They settled on the floor across from each other. With aching lungs, Quatre offered her the gray metal cylinder that held another day of life—or half-day perhaps, since they would be sharing it.

"You go first," they both said at the same time. They laughed mirthlessly. Quatre still nudged the container towards Dorothy though, and she just cocked her head to look at it.

"I shouldn't have said that in jest," she said slowly.

"Which one?"

"The space opera lovers one. Even the fates can't take a joke. Look at where we are now."

Quatre would like to point out that the fates did not quite hit the bull's eye for the part about them being lovers, but he instead focused his energy into pushing the cylinder towards her. "Take it now."

"I won't argue," she sighed, placing the mask over her face. She took four full breaths and exhaled to the fullest extent. Even in the dim glow of the emergency lights, Quatre could tell that the flushed buttermilk of her complexion was crawling back to her face.

He crouched closer to study her. For some weird reason, this whole thing felt more like a déjà vu than anything else…

His first unguarded thought was: _She's so beautiful._ Their situation has stripped her of all her haughty aura, leaving only a fragile softness so rare in her that it almost seemed like an illusion. As she drank more life from the container, a few pallid strands of her locks danced in microgravity to sway around her serene face. He fought the urge to tuck them behind her delicate ears, to reach out and steady the tiny tremors invading her hands. Those shoulders, which he knew were rising and falling because her breathing was beginning to stabilize and not because she was panting in terror, made him want to embrace her anyway and promise her everything would be okay.

His second unguarded thought was: _She's so close I could kiss her right now._

Quatre blinked in horror. _Damn this lack of oxygen,_ he scolded inwardly. _Damn all these thoughts that chose this very moment to knock my head_. _Damn it, damn it, damn me._

Dorothy's eyes were smiling when she opened them. He did not meet her gaze and just mumbled a quiet thank you when she pushed the breathing kit into his hands.

The blast of oxygen flowed like a breeze in his system. He scrunched his eyes close to welcome and savor every gust. He let it cleave away all the cobwebs in his mind—the guilt, too, and hopefully even the tainted thoughts that sailed there moments ago. He exhaled loudly, inhaled some more, flushed it all out. When his lungs were no longer complaining, he opened his eyes and found Dorothy's wondering face studying his.

"I don't know why," she whispered so low he barely heard it, "but this whole thing felt more like a déjà vu than anything else."

"Did you just read my mind?" he muttered back with a lopsided smile. "I thought that, too, a while ago."

Rummaging through their own memories, they spent the next minute in total silence. Dorothy finished her turn with the inhaler before piercing the quiet with a shaking laughter.

"What's so funny?" asked Quatre.

"This is so pathetic," she explained, handing back the oxygen bottle. "Never in my whole life did I think I would ever be involved in the number one cliché in the history of TV space operas. But look! Here I am, one-half of the star-crossed leads whose ending would bring supernova ratings to this network…"

"Hush," Quatre mildly chided. He returned the canister as it was clear she was still a little woozy from oxygen deficiency. "Unfortunately to whoever our imaginary viewers are right now, there would be no ending of that sort. Okay? We'll get out of here soon. Breathe. Live, all right?"

"You almost sounded like you did the last time we're in a similar situation."

"What do you mean?"

"Spaceship in danger of sinking. Dim lights. Us in great peril, but still talking and talking. God, aren't we the chattiest then? Oh, and reading each other's minds. Ring any bells?"

Quatre furrowed his brow for a while before catching what she meant. His mind—no, his Space Heart—snagged him back to the Wars. He was once again in _their_ battle, him in his Sandrock directing his fellow pilots, and her playing with her mind-marionettes that were the Mobile Dolls. The ZERO system had allowed the rival tacticians to infiltrate each other's minds across the broken MS-littered space. In that split-second connection, he had indeed been a trespasser in her head. And then there was _Libra_ …

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. "I did not mean to bring back bad memories."

"No. I'm the one who did it."

She cupped her face with the mask, but this time, she kept her eyes open. She looked straight at him as she breathed in her share of air, trying to converse with her stare. Not knowing what to say or do, Quatre just gazed back to decode her message, and he was not surprised at all when clear drops of gems floated in the space between them. A couple of drops touched his cheek, splashing there as if they were his own tears and not hers…

"Dorothy…"

"Oh Quatre," she broke in a sob, putting the mask down. She forced a smile through her tears. "This is not how I planned to say this to you—this is not even _when_ I plan to say this to you. I'm not ready now. I'm not sure if I'll ever be ready, to be honest, but I guess I don't have much of a choice now, do I?"

That was it. That was the sound of her walls breaking down, a sound akin to a lonely love song that drove Quatre's own emotions screaming inside him. He distracted himself by prying the canister off her viselike grip. When she let go, he set the kit aside and ever so gently wrapped his arms around her. Whether this was the right response or not, he did not care. There was a part of him that hurt when he saw those first tears, and comforting her was the only thing he could think of to put the floodgates back, for both their sakes. He felt her arms encircle his waist; he tightened his embrace.

"How about we talk about it over coffee aboveground?" Quatre piped, trying to lighten up the mood. "Or over non-alcoholic champagne, if you prefer that."

Dorothy half-sniffed, half-giggled into his ear. "You don't have any idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

"No," he lied churlishly. "And I don't care."

"You should. I…I almost killed you back then."

 _Libra_.

His third unguarded thought was: _I don't want to see you hurt again._

"We don't need to talk about it, really," he murmured _._ "Not now. Not ever."

"But we need to."

"No, we don't."

"We do."

The tone she used made it clear she allowed no room for more debate. He readied to pull away, thinking she would move to loosen her grip on him, but she did the opposite. She clung to him tighter, burying her face on the crook of his neck.

"I'm sorry," she croaked. "I can spew out more words, I can offer more explanations about why I did what I did, and I can think of reasons to defend myself. But in the end, those three words were all I really wanted to say. And I meant them, God knows I meant them. I have long known those words would ring louder in my head the more I cage them in but I am not brave enough to set them free. They haunt me in each and every day that I leave them unsaid. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Quatre."

A decrescendo of the apology lingered on her lips. Could she have said all these if her mind was not clouded? Would she even touch him if they were in a more normal setting? Would she bother talking to him if she passed him by the punch table at the Ball, or saw him at the other end of the room in a press conference? Would she recognize him not as a fragment of a painful past but a possible friend in the present?

"I know it's not going to be easy, Quatre, but…I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me."

He heaved a deep sigh, smiling thoughtlessly at the note of vanilla in her hair. "I'm sorry, but I can't forgive you."

She froze. Her arms stayed locked around him but it was no longer her plea that was securing them there. Fear, perhaps? The shame of rejection? Her teardrops hung suspended around them, like unevenly spaced ellipses waiting for what they would do next. Dorothy did not move, not yet. It was as if she was still processing his reply, and was mustering enough courage to face what more he has to say to her if he ever let go—which, of course, he still did not plan to do.

"How can I forgive you if there's nothing to forgive in the first place?" he squeezed her shoulders reassuringly. "I'm not justifying all that transpired before, but we're in a war, Dorothy. There are things we have done that we thought we'd never do in our lifetime. But we did them anyway because we believed they're right—we did them because we believed we're _in_ the right. How can we even distinguish what's right or wrong while we fought, anyway? We make mistakes. In the end, the events shoved in our faces that we're not as strong as we thought, that somewhere along the way we have let our personal demons defeat us without us noticing. Regrets would always be there. I know that because they continue to clobber me in my sleep. The decisions we made might have broken parts of us in shards that would never be repaired again, but they still shaped us into who we are now. They were parts of our personal histories we learned so much from. They prodded us to give ourselves a chance; it will be completely up to us whether we would take that chance or not. I'm glad that you did."

He felt her shake, felt her arms go up to curl around his neck.

"You bastard," she half-sobbed. "For a second there I thought you'll give me hell for almost killing you. I've prepared myself for that, of course, but…"

"Is that all you got from what I said?" he inquired with a grin.

"I got everything, and more," she whispered. "Thank you, Quatre."

There were no edges in her now; she melted wholly in his arms, unguarded by anything but the pure nakedness of her soul. It might just be his imagination, but he thought he could feel her trip-hammering heartbeats against his chest. He hoped he could keep this moment in a bottle or something, just so he could remind himself that this thing, this beautiful thing, has indeed happened.

"I'm happy you decided to give yourself a chance, Dorothy," he reiterated. "Take it slowly. Once you learn to forgive yourself, you'll completely be free."

Dorothy nodded, unlocking her hold on him. Reluctantly he shifted to finally let her go but was stopped when she moved closer to put her forehead against his. She smiled up at him, her eyes still filmed with tears and gratefulness. He drew in a lungful of air.

"I can't breathe," he chuckled, meaning it two ways.

For what happened next, he could blame the oxygen deficiency. He could blame their dizziness, their mental confusion, their fragile states, and a thousand other excuses he sought in the corners of his blurry mind. He could blame them all, but he would not…because he liked it. As Dorothy pressed her lips against his—a sweet epilogue to their conversation, a form of torture, a hallucination?—he shook off all the questioning notions that hounded his conscience. A small part of him urged him to surrender to the delicious sin of not letting the moment to end so soon. But would she mind? Tenderly, he clasped her closer and translated his question into gestures: he moved to deepen the kiss.

It was a tad clumsy at first because Dorothy was caught off guard, but as if granting him permission, she softened into his messy movements and guided him. She giggled into his mouth, resting a hand at the back of his head to tangle her fingers with his hair.

His fourth unguarded thought was: _I like her._

Quatre knew they could have lengthened the kiss some more, but the crackling radio and Captain Clarke's voice forced them to peel away from each other. Guiltily, he stooped to grab the oxygen bottle from the floor, pulling a long inhale from the mask before picking up the mic to respond to the skipper.

The RRT have relocated them and would be pulling them up anytime soon, Captain Clarke was telling them. Quatre was still disoriented from their previous activity that he did not hear her ask if the two of them are doing fine. Dorothy poked at his elbow to bring him back to focus.

"Yes, we're all right," he said hurriedly, his face flaming.

What was the Captain teasing them about earlier? Watch out so the rescuers would not catch them _canoodling_?

"We're more than all right," Dorothy sing-songed from behind the oxygen mask.

* * *

 _To be continued..._

 **A/N:** So yes, I lied. There would be chapter 03 after all! Only as an epilogue of some sort, though. This chapter has already stretched a little longer than I intended and I didn't want to ram the rest of the story in it.

In other news, the deadline for the (very successful) Endless Reflection Fanfiction Challenge for the 20th Anniversary of the show has passed, and I was unfortunately unable to join. Boo. The entries were gold, so if you're interested to read them, just head over to Gray02's profile page to see the link there. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Gundam Wing and all its characters © Sotsu Agency, Sunrise, and TV Asahi. All fanfics are not for profit.

* * *

 **The Moon Can Keep a Secret  
** by kokopelle

 _Chapter 03_

* * *

Whatever kind of force or magic the Roris Rescue Team used to fence the rabid media out the temporary Hab they put up for the _Artemis_ passengers, Quatre was very grateful for it. As he heaved a tired sigh, he knew that the last thing he needed right now was to face a bunch of comments-hungry reporters. He was positive they came in wild droves, ready to pounce on any information that could be tweaked with a flavor of sabotage or something remotely related to the Eve War Armistice celebration.

Shaking his head, he looked up at the transparent roof to ward off the looming bad mood and smiled up at the waxing earthrise. The sight of it soothed him, like it was a friend he missed so much in the hours he spent trapped in the moon pit.

Sitting cross-legged on the canvassed floor of the tent, he glanced at Dorothy beside him. She looked as though she was already halfway into dreamland with her eyes lidded like that; the scent of hot chocolate from her mug seemed to be her last and only tether to wakefulness at the moment. He smiled despite himself. He believed her when she said she could take on all those mediamen, but he was glad the Med Team prohibited any of them to step outside until they were given the necessary check-ups and shots. Not that Dorothy was eager to be out the Hab—the moment they climbed out their Pod, she has discreetly used him as a crutch to get themselves over to where they were now sitting.

It was Preventer Agent Sally Po who monitored the two of them with full attention (she had traded her Preventers uniform for a sleek cocktail dress for the party, Quatre noted with slight amusement). She was trying to ignore Quatre's cannonade of questions at first, but she relented anyway: she said the Ball was ongoing and that not everybody has been informed of the _Artemis_ incident, to avoid any fear about terrorists that may surface.

Before he could ask any more questions, Sally paced away from them to talk to a puffy-eyed Captain Clarke in a small makeshift 'office area'. The skipper has been crying her eyes out about her "beloved _Artemis_ ", and though he knew the passenger craft was far from being a war ally like his gundam, Quatre understood what she felt.

"Now that's something you can't really dispel," he heard Dorothy mutter. He scooted and lightly bumped his shoulder to hers.

"What?"

"Fear," she said, and he realized she was referring to the news about the attendees not being informed of what happened. "The fear that the peace you have fought so hard to achieve was only to borrow time, a fleeting period of serenity that you have to enjoy as much as you can before someone decides it has been too quiet, too…peaceful."

Clamping his mouth shut in a thin line, Quatre stared down at the contents of his own mug. He knew where this was going.

"There will always be a reason for starting a fight again, of course," Dorothy continued. "Reasons propped up by something deep, like strung-together beliefs from sister-philosophies, legacies from fathers, or a conviction borne from personal experiences. But these are secondary. At the root of it all is the fact that fighting is hard-wired into every human being's system. It's innate."

Quatre took a swig from his mug and winced at how the chocolate seemed to taste so bitter. "That may be so, but there's an explanation for those reasons. As long as we have someone to protect, as long as we have people we love, the instinct for needless fights will always be pushed in the backburner. Or maybe not," he shrugged when Dorothy raised a forked eyebrow. "Maybe it's always in the forefront, like you said. But again, don't you think the very reasons that drive it are what strip it away from being just a knee-jerk response to our nature? That these are what separate us from animals? Humans fight not merely because we can't help but _not_ fight. Most people who march into battle are usually there because they don't want their loved ones to experience sorrow, to get hurt. The people who choose to fight…they are usually the ones who choose to love, too."

Dorothy flashed him a sad smile. "Love, of course. The best justification."

Quatre opened his mouth to retort, but his words dwindled away when Dorothy chuckled and set her mug on the floor. She looked straight into his eyes.

"Love is a dangerous drive, Quatre," she said in an undertone, as if what she was telling him was a secret. "Our hearts can't always be trusted. That 'follow-your-heart' advice, for instance, is constantly drilled into our heads, from pre-colonial shrinks and fairytale characters to dead colony leaders and pacifists. But see, they forgot something to attach to their precious one-sentence Life Manual: what should one do if one's heart is wrong? Should he stand by it if its reasons pull him into the fire, or should he turn away? We don't realize it, but oftentimes we love the wrong things. A person who has so much love gets goaded by all the desires of his heart. He is often blind to other obvious things he should be following or believing."

"Who gets to decide what's wrong or right, anyway?" Quatre muttered back, feeling a bit crushed. Dorothy is practically driving his purpose compass haywire. She was making him think back. Since when has it been wrong to love? Was there any instance in his life that his heart—his Space Heart—has been wrong? Or now that he thought about it, when has it ever been _right_?

"Am I confusing you?" Dorothy laughed softly.

He gave her a look of mock fatigue. "Congratulations."

"I'm sorry," she shot happily, tossing a handful of hair behind her shoulder. She motioned to link her arm around his when Sally, who has somehow snagged a Preventers jacket somewhere and put it over her dress, appeared next to them. Dorothy wrapped her arms around herself instead.

"Suit up now, kids. We're cleared," Sally announced, pocketing her phone. "We'll get you to the Hotel now. Expect a rough ride, though, since we can only use the mining rovers to get you there—using the lunar ambulances would only attract unwanted attention when we arrive at the Ball. You can still join the celebration if you want, but personally I don't think that will be a good idea. Those reporters are just going to interrogate you the whole time you're on the dance floor."

"Not in the mood to party anyway," Dorothy mumbled, glancing up at the other passengers who were also getting into their spacesuits. She grabbed the bulk of her own spacesuit and passed Quatre his.

"I think we will go straight to our rooms and rest," Quatre agreed. He wriggled clumsily into his suit, fighting back an oath that rose to his throat when he could not zip up at first. Frowning, he put on his helmet right away when he saw Dorothy watching him with a delighted smirk.

"All right, I'll leave you guys for now," he heard Sally said in a lightly muffled voice. "I heard our very stubborn Vice Foreign Minister has arrived to check what's happened here."

Dorothy arched an eyebrow at Sally's retreating form, murmuring something about how she has half-expected that of Miss Relena. Zipping up the suit to her neck, she looked at Quatre, who peered back at her through the darkness of his helmet. For the first time since they talked aboard the _Artemis_ a few hours ago, he felt a bit uncomfortable again.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

He nodded, knowing his "Yes" would be muted to her.

"Why are you blushing?"

What? "I'm not!"

Oh, but of course he was. He could feel the heat scattering all over his face. Somewhere between their conversation about fighting and Sally's last announcement, her wondering stare has regained its powers over him. He did not know why, but he suspected it has something to do with the finality that suiting up has symbolized. They were now going back to their lives after this little accident. Would she remember the kiss? Did that kiss matter to her _at all_? Would things be different for them from now on?

While Quatre was wallowing in these questions, he did not see Dorothy stepping up to him. She furrowed her brow and let out a confused little giggle when she checked his suit's arm readouts, which registered increasing heart rate and body temperature. Shaking her head, she settled her hands on either side of his helmet.

"Dorothy," he breathed, a tad surprised when she touched him again. All right, technically, she was not touching him—just his helmet—but her closeness was enough to qualify as touching when there were suits involved. He was silently thankful that she has not put on her own helmet yet, because if she did, she probably heard through the intercom how unsteady his voice has become.

"Thank you," she said with utter sincerity, her voice curiously clear this time. "Thank you for everything."

She opened her mouth as if to launch into another speech, then hesitated. Quatre felt a tickle of a smile at the very un-Dorothy reaction, but it went stillborn when she tipped forward, closed her eyes, and pressed her lips against the faceplate of his helmet.

He froze.

Was…was that a kiss?

When she leaned back, they both stared at the blurry imprint of her lips on the glass. The moment it vanished, he blinked at her and pushed the faceplate's retract button, causing it to slide up to his brow.

"All right," she said, an embarrassed laugh bubbling up in her voice. "That was ultimately stupid and pathetic. Please don't tell anyone I did that."

"Don't worry. We won't."

Both of them jumped. As if his helmet has suddenly gone caustic, Dorothy immediately peeled her hands off him and twirled around at the source of the voice. Relena stood with her hands on her hips, not bothering to hide a toothy grin and tilting her head at them. Hovering close beside her was Heero, clad handsomely in his bodyguard uniform. His face was stony but his eyes burned with a thousand meanings.

"Miss Relena," Dorothy greeted, her voice unnaturally an octave higher than her normal tone. With her back to him, Quatre did not know how she maneuvered her facial expression, but he watched how her ears had gone scarlet.

"Hi, Miss Relena," he said weakly. "Heero."

"I see you're well," Relena greeted back, meaning it two ways. "I can't say I'm not surprised, but no need to worry. We can keep a secret. Right, Heero?"

Heero only hummed, a corner of his mouth slightly turning up higher than the other.

"It's not what you're thinking," Dorothy tried with zero conviction, knowing she sounded like a flighty teenager trying to explain herself.

"How do you know what we're thinking?"

"I don't. I just know that whatever it is, you're wrong."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

"How?"

"I just do."

"That doesn't sound like you, Dorothy. You usually offer hard facts to support your claims."

"You should have removed your helmet," Heero interjected, forcing the others to turn their attentions to him. Quatre swiveled to his right and saw Heero staring intently at him.

"I, uh…" Quatre swallowed and shrugged, but the action was lost in the bulkiness of his suit. He glanced at the others. Dorothy was mildly surprised at Heero's advice, and Relena put a fist over her mouth to stifle her laugh. What should he say? He gazed back at Heero, praying so hard for his friend to get that if he wanted interrogation, they could choose a different time and place for it…

"She wasn't able to kiss you properly because of that."

Right. So much for thinking the guy would heed his silent request. It was either Heero was liking this too much, or he was in desperate need of a brief lecture on the proper moments to use his newly founded social skills.

"Unless you did not really want her to kiss you, hence the helmet…"

"Of course I want to!" Quatre said a little too fast. He threw a panic-stricken look at the ladies. "I mean…it's not like I'm expecting to…Well, I mean—"

"You also retracted the faceplate a few seconds too late."

Quatre wilted. "You noticed that, too."

"Were you expecting another kiss?"

Could the moon just crack open again and swallow him up right at this very minute? He could do nothing but bite his lower lip while avoiding eye contact.

"Stop that, Heero," Relena scolded in jest, swatting the man's arm lightly. "Let's go check on the others. I think I saw Senator Liang over there." She turned back to the blondes. "We'll see you two at the party?"

"I'm not sure," Dorothy answered in a jaded huff. "It's been a long day for us already. We could use some rest."

"Okay. But we'll need to catch up over tea after the party. I felt like there's so much to talk about."

Dorothy rolled her eyes, which the former Queen of the World took as a 'yes'.

"I'll see you then," Relena waved and winked. She faced Heero playfully as they walked away, and before they were completely out of earshot, Quatre thought he heard her teasing her bodyguard about _their_ helmets and a kiss that could have been. He quietly filed it away in his head, figuring that he could use it if ever Heero brings up what they have inadvertently witnessed.

"Were you?" Dorothy asked suddenly, making him think he caught only the tail-end of her question.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Expecting another kiss?"

"…No."

"Honestly?"

"Honestly." He crossed his fingers behind his back.

"All right then," Dorothy chuckled, stretching her arms. As she slid on her own helmet, he wondered if he should have admitted how after that faceplate peck, he was a mere handful of seconds away from pulling her into a full snog before Relena and Heero piped in to announce their presence.

Sighing, he closed his helmet and turned on the intercom.

"—erba Winner," he heard Dorothy whisper through the tiny speakers. "Going so bold one minute, chickening out the next…"

Quatre cleared his throat. "I can hear you, Miss Dorothy."

"I know," she called back in a tone that told him she was rolling her eyes again. They saw Sally signaling to them near the airlock with a raised hand. Ambling towards the medic's direction, Dorothy shifted closer to Quatre and tapped at his elbow. "What do you say about a round of chess when we get back?"

"I may have to give you a rain check on that one," he responded truthfully. "I'm so tired I could pass out right now."

"All right."

It took him a moment before it clicked in his head: could that _chess_ mean something more than just…chess? The girl sure loved her collection of metaphors. Suspiciously, he peeked at her and saw, under the grey shadows of her helmet, how innocent her sleep-veiled features were. He mustered just enough strength to _not_ hit himself. When did he become so dirty-minded?

As they walked forward, he slowly felt like he needed to say one more thing to her. He grabbed her arm gently to bring her to a halt. "Can I make one last request before we go?"

She set her doubt-laced eyes on his grip on her. "If you're taking back what you said about not expecting one more—"

"Please stay?" he cut her off. "Please keep in touch? At least please let me try to be your friend?"

It might just be his imagination, but he thought her eyes go soft. "You need to work on your math. That's more than one request."

"Choose one then. It doesn't matter whichever you pick."

Her nod was lost when she threw back her head in a good-natured laugh—a happy music that swam in the insides of his helmet, his head. When she placed her hand over his, he knew in his ecstatic heart that all her indirect responses were enough.

* * *

FIN.

* * *

 **A/N** : Thanks a lot to everyone who read/ reviewed/ favorited this story, I appreciate it! This chapter has been a little too uneventful compared to the first two, but I felt I needed to write this before I could completely wrap it up as a prequel to my much lighthearted ficlet series **_Love and Other Explosive Items_** , which I'm working on in installments (see my profile for more details). I hope you enjoyed it! See you in my next fic!

 **Trivia Tidbits:**

1.) This fic was inspired by Arthur Clarke's classic story _A Fall of Moondust_. The skipper in my story, Captain Patricia H. Clarke, was a nod to Captain Pat Harris (the name of the skipper in my muse) and the author himself.

2.) Artemis is a Greek huntress-deity known as the twin sister of Apollo, a sun god. Her symbols include a golden bow and arrow and the moon. In _A Fall of Moondust_ , the name of the spacecraft that ran aground was Selene. Selene was the name of the Greek goddess of the moon and she was closely identified with Artemis as much as her twin brother, Helios, was identified with Apollo.

3.) Of course, Heero and Relena were talking about their helmet scene in Episode 48! Ah, there could have been a real kiss if it weren't for those helmets... *waves 1xR flag*


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